Little Joy Crumbs

A tiny foot is wedged into the bottom of my ribcage, prompting me to surrender to third-trimester insomnia and rise with the spring sun. I make coffee, pulling down the same two mugs I always do for my husband and myself. It is a daily rhythm serving as an anchor in these strange times where one day bleeds into the next.

Today the coffee has to brew over the gas stovetop because of a neighborhood power outage—a small inconvenience, but I have lived abroad long enough to expect interruptions. It comes with the package when signing up for the expatriate life.

But how troubling it is the first time the veil of certainty is stolen from our startled hands and we realize we were not as in control as we once thought. How troubling it is when a novel virus carries itself invisibly from street to street, city to city, and we all find ourselves behind the closed doors of our homes, our routines wholly and completely upset. “Normal” holds a new definition now, the old meaning tossed aside. One day it was and the next it was not.

My husband and I have had good practice braving the onset of life’s interruptions. Prolonged uncertainty breeds isolation but we have learned to receive it. Along with living in a foreign country, we got married amid a controversial travel ban, paddled the choppy waters of immigration visas, and are now bringing a child into a worldwide pandemic. Uncertainty is an always-present third party perched on top of the couch, a visitor who has missed the cues and overstayed its welcome.

Like brewing coffee, walking outside each day—perhaps more of a waddle, belly propelling me forward—has been another anchor, a sacred cadence for the soul.

 Neighboring homes stand stoic and taciturn as families tuck themselves inside. The unusual silence cloaks everything like a stubborn layer of dust. There are masked faces, parks wrapped in police tape, canceled plans, and disappointments.

 But when looking a little more closely, there is also a wave of a hand from a watchful grandma behind glass, a clumsily colored rainbow taped to a window, a softer and gentler greeting between two people as they pass six feet apart. A turtle ambles across the rocks. The lilac trees blossom into soft purples. A collared dove perched in an evergreen calls out in a long, slow lament.

Having weathered many upsets in life, my husband and I know the feeling of juggling juxtaposing emotions. At the beginning of the year, we received news that caused the seams of our life to unravel and the ground beneath our feet to shake. The heartbeat of every one of our prayers for the last few years was for a single door to open. And now, after one phone call with an impassive immigration clerk on the other end of the line, that door was closed shut.

Yet life went on and my belly grew a little rounder each day. A week after receiving the devastating news, we held a party with our close friends where we bit into cupcakes to the count of three and cheered when little pink sprinkles spilled out from the middle—a girlWe celebrated with frosting decorating the corners of our laughing mouths, sprinkles falling into cupped hands. And I remember feeling these words dash across my mind for just a fleeting moment: This is kind of nice.

When receiving the difficult news earlier that week, all our future dreams dissipated in front of us. We could no longer plan ahead. The curtain of certainty was stolen and replaced with an unending today but never tomorrow. But this—celebrating the coming of a new baby girl with pink cupcakes and laughs and prayers—was nice. 

The late poet, Mary Oliver, writes that joy should not be compared to a crumb. Recognizing the scattering of little joy crumbs on the counters of our lives does not need to be embarrassingly brushed into our hands and down the sink or quickly wiped from our lips before anyone has noticed. “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,” she pens, “don’t hesitate. Give in to it.” We have permission to recognize the little bit of beauty in the struggles of life.

Spotting joy—there it is and there is another!—does not overshadow the weight of grief, disappointment, and pain, for these too, are important to hold. Feeling one thing does not negate the other because both/and fits comfortably on our laps.

Joy makes space for these heavy things. We can lift it onto one hip and sorrow the other, our arms wrapped around both like a mother gathering her children to her. It is in the tension of life’s complications where the scent of God is. It is here—right here, at this moment—where the Creator speaks, for he holds it all together. At this crossroads is where we can partake in the glory that will be revealed at God’s coming again.

Joy is in the kick of a tiny baby’s foot, the slow brew of morning coffee, a power outage, the daily rhythm of rising and opening curtains. It is in a leisurely walk, the still small whisper of God’s voice, two mugs set out on the table, frosting on a cupcake. Perhaps looking for these is a way to fight back against the heaviness of life. Perhaps it is okay to see a morsel of joy in the middle of pain.

So when you do see little joy do not hesitate. Give in to it. Grab on to it.


The Good Luck Mug

If you ever come to our home, you’ll probably be greeted with a cup of tea no matter the season. Admittedly, not by me—I’m still learning the art of tea-making—but by my husband. And don’t expect the instant tea-bag-dunked-in-hot-water kind. No, you will be given slowed-brewed Persian chai—black tea leaves with hints of cinnamon and cardamom, steeped all morning over a low open flame on the stove.

And there might be a chance you’ll reach into the kitchen cabinet for a glass and unknowingly grab the red mug. It’s a small, stout ceramic cup, half-submerged in vermillion red paint, half left as natural clay. We have a green and blue one too. They’re handmade by a Turkish potter, getting his clay from the river running through our town, spinning them on his wheel and firing them in his kiln down the street.

But the red mug? That’s our good luck mug.

It’s called that not because it mystically brings years of good fortune and success to the drinker (at least not that we know of). It’s not because it’s pretty and unique—and it is, made locally and one-of-a-kind. There isn’t one like it. Even its siblings who sit quietly in a row on the store shelf all look slightly different from each other upon closer inspection.

It’s called our good luck mug because it has cracks—actually, a lot of cracks. Actually, the handle has been broken off and glued back together three different times in four different places. There are thick clumps of dried superglue oozing out of the broken areas and little paint chips sprinkled around the rim. ‘Good luck’ in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way because the glued-on handle has, on more than one occasion, slowly and melodramatically separated from the rest of the mug while in use.

Life holds a lot of cracks, doesn’t it?

Our miserable-looking mug, in all its fractures and pitiful glue attempts, brings to mind the stories of grief we all carry, how life has the power to crack us wide open. I have yet to meet someone who isn’t shouldering a rucksack of grief—past or present, big or small, seen or hidden. At the moment, we are all living in the same state of cracks as we experience a global pandemic, and with that brings in worry for high-risk loved ones, disappointment from canceled plans, and the loss of any sense of normalcy.

My husband and I have experienced ongoing grief before; this feeling isn’t new to us. It wasn’t just one defining moment or one break down the middle, but a series of blows and burials of dreams. We haven’t seen much come to fruition, or at least not many prayers answered in ways we had hoped. Any appearance of control we thought we possessed has been jostled out of our hands. Add on to that a pandemic, living in a foreign country, and the upcoming birth of our first child and our stress has been turned up one too many notches.

On a macro-level, we are all enduring the world turning upside down. And with that, there’s been a lot of online content lately written by well-meaning people who are trying to be encouraging during this time of heightened uncertainty. In a benevolent effort to ease the discomfort of quarantine and social distancing, there has been a flood of to-do lists, checklists, advice, and examples of productive routines infiltrating our inboxes. Get up early, exercise every day, bake bread, organize the junk drawer, write letters, zoom in meetings, get creative, be grateful, find a new normal.

But coming from someone who has had prolonged uncertainty as a constant sidekick for the past three years, let me be the first to tell you that you don’t have to do any of that. It’s too much pressure when the world feels a little too shaky. When tomorrow is shadowed in the unknown, sometimes we need to survive before we think about thriving. Often, it is more essential to acknowledge how we feel for a little awhile before we choose all the “shoulds” thrown our way.

This grief—a crack on the handle here, a chip around the rim there—can teach us the importance of holding space. In her book, The Broken Way, Ann Voskamp suggests, “Maybe wholeness is embracing brokenness as part of your life.” And when life throws a curveball, like an outbreak of a novel virus, we hold on to hope, which cannot be held on to without a few cracks. Grief, cracks, wholeness, and hope. They’re the ingredients to a recipe for fertile and holy ground. Welcome it.

If your good luck mug has cracks like mine—perhaps from the strange state of the world or from something else entirely—hold space for it. Don’t take sandpaper to it and buff out the discomfort by way of routines and productivity just yet. Identify the grief you’re feeling. Look for the growth among the cracks. Doing so can make way for wholeness. Joy and grief can be felt simultaneously. Imperfections and beauty can live side-by-side. And know this: the cracks are not fragile despite their appearance. They are being held together tightly by the Potter, the one who created the mug, the one who sees, who resurrects, who makes all things new.

When life feels unresolved and the threads of simply being are left untied, come to our house—you’ll be in like-minded company. Pull up the comfy chair, the one over there in the corner with the throw pillows. We’ll offer you that good, Middle Eastern chai. Choose the ramshackle cup with the crimson red paint and embrace both the defects and beauty. Hold space for grief in this time of uncertainty. Trust that the cracks will lead to light.

And, while I cannot prove this for sure, I’m almost certain everything tastes just a little bit better and a little bit sweeter in that good luck mug.


Ode to the Soul Weary

The low heat rises from the radiator and into the palms of my hands flat against the grate. Rubbing the sleep from eyes, I return my glasses back on the bridge of my nose and take an extra minute to look out the window.

There’s magic in the early mornings; it took me a while to realize this. There’s something special in the quiet moments just before the sun rises. It doesn’t come from the feeling of productivity – getting up early only to begin crossing things off a to-do list. No, there’s no magic in sitting in front of a bright screen, answering emails before dawn. It doesn’t come from waking up first, before the rest of the household, before the energetic sounds of kitchen cupboards closing, showers running, yawns, coffee cups, and dishes.

The magic of rising early in the morning lies in the fact that the outside world has yet to start. The earth’s groanings, all the stress and uncertainty she carries on her back, is still pushed down below the horizon line along with the sun. It’s hidden behind the mountains, and for one sacred hour each day, I can pretend the earth is at peace with herself because for once there are no screaming headlines, breaking news, or minute-by-minute updates. I savor the gentleness of a morning that has yet to hold the stress and uncertainty of life and all that’s in it. That’ll all come later – soon – as it inevitably does, but for now, there’s peace and beauty and a little magic.

Out the window and beyond the streetlights, standing tall and proud in the twilight, are tiny flickering candles nestled in the foothills – hundreds of hot air balloons, a popular tourist attraction in this region of the country. Ethereal, they whisper their presence out into the sleepy dark, like little paper lanterns scattered down the mountains. The flames from their bellies blinking bright then soft, then bright again. It’s a morse code of good mornings.


I am soul-weary these days. Parched. Dry. Heavy. Maybe you feel it too?

In our house, we call these times “being in our cave”, when the world gets a little too much and we need to steal away under the refuge of a metaphoric cavern for a while.

I am weary from feeling out of control over so many things: election results, virus pandemics, greedy politicians who use people like pieces of a board game. My neck hurts from headline whiplash, shocked by and outraged over daily news stories only until the next breaking report comes along.

The earth groans and I hear the voices of a thousand, a million, who are uprooted and have no place to call home – and no home that wants to call them there. It’s a weariness that comes from the stories of loved ones who are also waving the banner of uncertainty and leading the way in the parade of unending waiting – stories not mine to tell.

“Where is the justice?” we ask into the void of the pre-morning darkness. “When does mercy come?” The earth and all that is in her yearns for an answer. This longing for things to be set right and for crooked paths to be made straight is inherent in all of us.

So what do we do when it is not yet time for those questions to pair up with answers? How do we get relief from the tiredness of our souls?


The faraway hot air balloons begin to take flight, one by one, slow motion into the air. The first one leaves, confident, like a baby bird flying the nest for the first time, then the next and the next. And soon the whole sky is a panorama of kaleidoscopic balloons, ebbing and flowing as the sun rises behind them.

What do we do when we are soul weary and the world is too much? We can take comfort in routine and rhythms, still opening to scripture each day, even when the tissue paper pages feel like bowling balls. Deep calls out to deep, and we can find rest for our souls in the depth of the Creator’s goodness.

We can take active steps to put limits on what we consume. Unfollow news sites, snooze the people who post too many political things, turn off the WiFi at night and leave it off for a little longer each morning. Protect your soul. Boundaries are good. It’s okay to be gentle with yourself; it’s too much for us to continually absorb all the world’s grief.

Is your soul weary like mine? You can get up just a minute or two earlier and stand in front of the window just a minute or two longer. Maybe you don’t have a balloon show out your backyard every morning, but maybe you do have a twinkling river. Look at how the moon shines itself on top of the still waters. See the looming pine trees cuddled together around your home? Watch how the early morning shadows wrap themselves around the branches. Study the street lights, the neighbor’s garden, the freshly fallen snow, the flitting songbirds. The magic of the earth reveals itself slowly if we stop and look for it.

To the soul-weary: Things will one day be set right. It’s been promised to us. But in the meantime, find little pockets of peace. Be gentle and brave and still and quiet. Look for the magic.